


Love, Nicotine, and Other Things

by JelliBean_Queen



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Anal Sex, Expiration Date, M/M, Medic doesn't like smokers, Mentions of Cancer, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Nicotine Addiction/Withdrawal, Overhearing Sex, Sex isn't what this is all about though, established relationships - Freeform, implied sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-13
Updated: 2016-11-13
Packaged: 2018-08-30 20:26:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8547991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JelliBean_Queen/pseuds/JelliBean_Queen
Summary: Medic understood. Everyone had their own thing, and smoking was Spy's. And Sniper's. And sometimes Soldier and Demo and Engie. But when the habit starts to spread into Heavy's lungs, that's where Medic drew the line. But this was not the time for a PSA on the dangers of smoking and the benefits of cutting down. This was a time for action. For seizing a stash or two during a ceasefire. Let a lesson be taught. And let it be taught while Scout attempts to throw a prom for Miss Pauling. As though things weren't complicated enough for the mercenaries.





	1. Medic Decides Smoking Is Bad For Everyone's Health

It was the smell that bothered the Medic the most. The way the pungent tobacco wormed its way up his nose and settled into his lungs without permission, that made him twitch. Of course, considering his job, he really should have been more bothered by the fact that smoking kills, but his teammates were killed multiple times on a daily basis, then spoiled their newly respawned lungs with nicotine after the day’s battles. He did worry about Archimedes, though; most of the other doves fluttered away when they caught the scent of a lit cigarette, but Archimedes never left his side.

 

The Spy was an intelligent man. He knew he was an addict, however slick he might be about it. He didn't really care, so long as he got his imported cigarettes. Medic respected this, respected someone choosing to destroy their body as long as they were smart enough to realize what they were doing.

 

He could appreciate the Sniper’s logic, too. “Mister Mundy”, always borrowing a lighter from his partner― but never the cigarettes themselves, they were on agreement that the French ones belonged to Spy and Spy alone. Sitting with a rifle for hours at a time, he guessed he could understand how Sniper would want to pass the time with a smoke.

 

Engie didn’t break out his cigars too often. Demo had _substances_ he preferred much more than nicotine, but if he drank too much Scrumpy, he’d be lighting up and laughing next to Sniper, trying to see what he could make explode with only the burned-out ends in the ashtray. He’d once even offered Scout a smoke, who’d accepted with his chest puffed. He’d inhaled once and then nearly flew across the room, to the laughter of the rest of the smokers.

 

Pyro was a smoker too, but in a different way. Still, sitting in the smoking room between battles had its benefits, like being able to set small things on fire without anyone yelling that it was “inappropriate!”

 

So Medic supposed he could let go of the wafts of cigarette smoke up and down the RED base hallways. He supposed it didn't matter. Fresh air, albeit usually accompanied by a fair amount of gunfire, was always around the corner.

 

* * *

 

It was a vacation for everyone on the base: the voice, instead of counting down to their first battle of the day, simply said, _“Ceasefire. 48 hours.”_ and clicked off without another word. Everyone, whether or not they were too proud to admit it, was rather excited. Pyro brought out Balloonicorn (and a fair other number of inflatable toys) to have a tea party with. Demo brought out “the good” Scrumpy. Scout, fueled by _Bonk! Punch_ , was planning out a team-wide prom, “to explain the earlier thing to Miss Pauling.” Nobody mentioned that she probably forgot amidst the “self-aware beauty mark” fiasco, and nobody RSVP’d, either.

 

And everyone was enjoying their smokes.

 

Medic drew the line around noon of their first day off. Archimedes’ head was practically nestled in the doctor’s scalp, trying to use the combination of hair and styling cream to mask the scent of Spy’s cigarettes, the scent of which Archimedes did not find sophisticated at all.

 

Medic walked briskly through the halls to meet Misha (during battles he called his boyfriend _Heavy_ like everyone else). They’d figured that since it was a ceasefire, they could take their lunch alone, just the two of them, up in the balcony above the respawn area. Though the area may have been decorated with bullet holes, as long as Sniper didn’t leave any of his precious “Jarate” there, it should be the most romantic meal they’d have had in awhile.

 

He rounded the corner that led to the stairs, where the scent of smoke suddenly got stronger. He grumbled― he was going to the balcony to get _away_ from all this nicotine!

 

And there was Heavy and the BLU Spy, leaning casually back against the wall, smoke coming out of their mouths as they talked.

 

“Beginning to see the difference now, between regular and French cigarette.” Heavy said.

 

“I am glad you do, most people cannot distinguish between the two. In reality, these are much higher quality, and it is nice to find someone else who appreciates them.” BLU Spy replied.

 

“In Russia, where I grow up, the cigarette gave a person warmth from the inside.”

 

Medic didn't realized he had been standing there for so long until the Spy nodded and said, “And how are _you_ , dear Medic?”

 

Heavy turned at the noise. “Hello, my Doctor!” he said, letting a waft of smoke drift from his lips.

 

“ _Guten tag_ , Mikhail,” Medic said, and Heavy’s face fell slightly. The Spy noticed, but didn't realize why:

 

He’d prefer to be called Heavy than Mikhail―sometimes Medic still called him Heavy even if they were alone, the same way he still (more often than not) called Medic by his job title. They made it affectionate. But his long name was deliberate, and whenever the Medic used it, they were certain to get into a spat later.

 

Heavy just hoped it wouldn't last through the night. He couldn't stand it when the Medic insisted that he “share zhe bed vith Sascha tonight!” And, considering they had more spare time than usual, he’d made _plans_. Pleasant ones.

 

“Spy was sharing French cigarette with me. It is different than normal.” Heavy was slow to respond.

 

“I see,” Medic said, trying to keep the scorn out of his voice―he didn't want the Spy, especially the BLU one, poking his nose in.

 

“Come, let us eat.” Heavy planted a kiss on Medic’s forehead, opposite of where Archimedes’ head was buried. Medic could hear his frustrated coos right next to his ear. “Thank you for your time, BLU Spy.”

 

“It was very enjoyable, we must do this again. Medic,” he said, turning to the other man, “you ought to participate as well. In fact, it might make having all four of us in one room more enjoyable.”

 

By _“all four of us”_ he meant the Sniper, BLU Spy, Medic, and Heavy. While the two couples got along well as individuals, and as a team, the few times they attempted to formally double-date had been terribly awkward.

 

Medic forced a smile, not so much to pretend he was excited about the idea, but to let the Spy know he still wanted to keep things amicable between them. “I’d prefer to pass on zhe offer, but _danke_.”

 

“Let us go, Doctor,” Heavy said, nudging the smaller man’s arm as he picked up the cooler by his feet.

 

“Ja, _quickly_ ,” he mumbled, not quite sure if he wanted his words to be heard or not.

 

They went to the balcony, with its cracked windows overlooking the roof of the other base. A bit of an awkward sight, but relationships between the teams were neutral, if a bit strained―and ever since it came out that the BLU Spy and the RED Sniper were together ( _paramours_ , said the RED spy; _luvahs_ , said the BLU demoman; _mph phrhrr mmpch_ , said both Pyros)―the teams tried to be friendly with their body doubles on the days they weren’t sent to kill them over and over again.

 

Heavy brought out two wooden chairs and a table that were set aside as Medic contemplated all this. “Мой дорогой.” _My dear_ , he’d said. “Let us enjoy.” Heavy presented with a wave of his hand the meal he had prepared earlier―yeti meat that quite resembled a T-bone steak, a simple salad, and sparkling mineral water.

 

Normally Medic would have smiled broadly at the effort he took to prepare and arrange their meals, but all he could muster was a slight grin as Archimedes fluttered off of his shoulder and onto a joist.

 

“To the ceasefire,” Heavy said, raising his glass as Medic picked up his own.

 

“To zhe ceasefire,” Medic said, clearing his throat. As their glasses clinked, the larger man leaned in for a kiss.

 

Their lips touched and all Medic could think was that now the smell was surrounding him and the taste was on his mouth. He jerked away, more harshly than intended. His mouth twisted into a pucker.

 

Heavy mentally sighed, glancing down at the table. It was going to be such a good meal, too. “What? What is problem?”

 

“Nothing,” the Medic said, trying to breathe out the smell of it. “Zhere's just a rather unpleasant aroma about you right now, and I don't want it on my mouth.”

 

“Excuse me?” Heavy said, genuinely confused.

 

“I just prefer not to kiss a man vhen tobacco was the last thing near his lips.” He paused. “No matter how expensive it is.” He took a bit of a rattling breath and realized he was practically spitting out his words. He opened his mouth, to say something to take away the sting of what he said, when he was cut off:

 

“Heavy and Medic sittin’ in a tree!” Scout’s voice was _not_ spelling K-I-S-S-I-N-G when a jar of urine at least a day old came sailing down, splashing into him. Medic hadn’t noticed the jar until right before he decided to kick it.

 

“Zhat brat,” he said under his breath. Scout always got under everyone’s skin, just for the laughs. Scout would be feeling confused later, wondering why the Medic had reacted so poorly to a not-so-unusual taunt; normally he’d have just been chased away with a, “Get _out_ of here, Scout!”

 

He took another deep breath as he turned back around to face his Heavy. His stomach dropped as he saw that his Heavy’s ears were red and the flush was spreading.

 

“So, it is okay that I spend nighttime sleeping next to lab filled with body parts, but one cigarette from our friend makes me untouchable?”

 

“I added a filter between zhe apartment and zhe lab three months before you moved in for good,” Medic said, aware that this was not his point.

 

“Not my point.” Heavy replied on cue.

 

“You smell like an addict! I don’t want to kiss _zhat!_ ” He paced in front of him as he spoke.

 

“So I am addict now.” Heavy growled.

 

“You could quickly be! Respawn doesn't take away addiction from synapses in your brain!” Medic was starting to shout. “And you smell like zhe BLU spy now. _Mein Gott_ , it is disgusting.”

 

Medic stopped his pacing and leaned against the entryway from which they came. Heavy had already started putting all of the food back in the bag.

 

“And you can share zhe bed vith Sascha tonight!”

 

He strode quickly down the stairs, Archimedes fluttering to his shoulder. He walked fast and did not stop until he reached his lab.

 

Medic had really been looking forward for his lunch with Heavy; he and the other man were suckers for date nights. But now the doctor was clutching a sandwich in one hand, trying to write out the differences between orangutan and chimpanzee livers at his desk.

 

He glanced up from his desk and saw Heavy’s heart. When the two had started dating he had confessed that there was, in fact, a baboon heart inside of him. He’d held up the jar which had the Heavy’s original heart stitched back together, floating in preservative. He offered to let him keep it. Heavy refused. It was possibly the strangest first “I love you” of all time, with Heavy saying it as he pushed the jar with his own heart back into the other man’s hands. Medic kept the jar on his desk and he always got a little emotional when he saw it, though he’d never admit to anyone but Heavy that he saw it as anything other than a fascinating medical specimen.

 

He forced himself to glance back down to his papers. He muttered to himself as he wrote, “the...  orangutan… liver… shows… superior…” his writing was getting sloppier and his pen was pressing harder into the page. _“Verdamnt!”_ he spat as the pen split in the middle of the word _capability_ , spilling ink everywhere. He shoved the last bite of sandwich into his mouth with his clean hand as he tried to stop the spread of the ink.

 

The papers were useless now, all of them. He dumped them in the bin; he didn’t really need to write the differences out in order to experiment on the livers. He wiped off the desk and peeled off his gloves, tossing in the sink.

 

He put a hand to his head. He didn’t _suppose_ it made sense anymore. All of the members on his team were _dummkopfs_ for smoking like chimneys when there were better things to do. Not to mention all of their money wasted. And while respawn did give them lungs, it didn’t restore their bodies to sheer perfection― only to how they were when they entered the battle. Otherwise, Demoman would have had a second eye a long time ago.

 

Archimedes landed on his shoulder. As though the bird was a messenger of ideas, the German slowly straightened up. He took a new pen and with a certain calmness started to write out a chart with everyone’s smoking schedule, when they were out of their rooms, and when they retired at night.

 

The shrewd grin on his face would have been a dead giveaway that he was plotting something― if anyone was around to see it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update: The heart-in-a-jar reference IS awkwardly tied to my other fic (You've Got My Heart)-- this is actually the first fic I started writing but I got inspired to write short piece in the middle of writing this piece, so, that happened. I didn't want to take the heart-in-a-jar part out of this fic, though, because I thought it fit... anywhoo, hope you’re liking it so far!


	2. Make A Deal With BLU Scout 'Cause The Devil's Not Available

Heavy didn’t see Medic much for the rest of the day. His exasperation was bolstered by the fact that he had done nothing wrong, and by the time he had finished eating both steaks by himself in the community room, he’d decided to join Spy for  _ another _ cigarette, because he wanted to put himself at ease― he had forgotten how nicotine relaxed a person.  _ And _ because  _ he could _ . 

 

Cupping his hand around the lighter, he saw the white flutter of the Medic’s lab coat― he had a penchant for wearing it even when not on-duty― as the man rounded a corner in the distance. He had a quick, lengthy stride, with not only Archimedes but several other doves (Isaac, Charles, and Albert, guessed Heavy) flying around him, creating a feathery paparazzi. Heavy was familiar with that walk― and the attitude that went with it― and wondered what his boyfriend was setting out to do. He started to take a step to ask him, but he was gone from sight quickly, right as the flame lit the cigarette in between his fingers.

 

Wearing a fresh set of gloves, the Medic hurried, ignoring the blurry sight of what must be Heavy, lighting up again beyond the edge of his glasses. He rounded the corner as briskly as possible. He was glad none of his birds were shedding feathers, but he’d still triple-checked the room before leaving. One dove feather would be a dead giveaway that Medic was the one in Scout’s room.

 

He clutched the small Tom Jones figurine in his inside jacket pocket. He felt slightly guilty, but considering that it (along with the rest of Scout’s Tom Jones stuff) was practically worthless after all, he felt justified in the theft.

 

He saw the BLU Scout in the distance. He hoped that what their own Scout said was true: that the BLU Scout didn't have a single Tom Jones item that the RED Scout had, and vice versa.

 

_ “No reason to believe it was a lie― that was the only time he'd admitted he didn’t have all the Tom Jones paraphernalia that exists.”  _ Thought Medic to himself.

 

With that in mind, he pinched his lips and let out a loud, clear, attention-grabbing whistle, one he’d perfected from training doves (though he rarely bothered to use the commands he’d trained them to obey).

 

The four doves around him all landed quickly onto the nearest suitable perch, synchronized, as the BLU scout turned around. His first reaction to seeing the RED Medic was fight or flight― his legs spring into the classic “scout” stance, prepared to dash either towards or away from the man, as fast as he could. A second later, he straightened up. He tilted his head, his confusion as obvious as a dog’s― why would the Medic approach him during a ceasefire? Why would the Medic approach  _ him _ at all?

 

The Medic raised the Tom Jones figurine from inside his jacket, feeling secure in the rather secluded area they were in. He waved it in the air, and beckoned for the BLU Scout to come over.

 

The BLU Scout hesitated. There was a something the RED Medic wanted from him. There was no way he’d just  _ give _ him a Tom Jones limited edition  _ “Strike a Pose!” _ figurine. The guy was nuts―he'd heard that earlier that day he'd Jarate’d someone on his own team.

 

But… it looked like it was in mint condition. And he was  _ bouncing  _ it in his palm now. Up and down and if he didn’t stop, it’d be dropped and scratched on the gravel.

 

The Scout drifted almost unconsciously closer to the other man. He straightened up right in front of the Medic and raised his chin a little. The Medic stopped tossing the figurine and clasped it firmly; he knew what lengths either Scout would go to for anything Tom Jones, and the Scout in front of him had taken a baseball bat to his head more than a few times.

 

“Hey, listen up, I am  _ not  _ sellin’ out any team secrets. It's gonna take a lot more than  _ that _ ,” the Scout pointed to the figurine, shiny in the red gloves, “to get anything outta me, ya hear?”

 

“Firstly, I'm not here for any team secrets―which I am doubtful your team even has, and am more doubtful you would be trusted to know zhem.” Medic replied. “Secondly, if I did need to get information out of you, I wouldn't use bribery.” He smiled a wicked grin at that. “Also, your statement just implied zhat you could be bought, for a certain price. Bad for your team, but good for me, because I do need something.”

 

“Whatcha want?” the Scout said, a hot blush rising from his neck. He felt shown up― and he’d thought that line was pretty good, too.

 

“I need you to confiscate some zhings from your teammates and bring zhem to me,” the Medic said, raising a figurine to silence the Scout before he could interrupt. “No weapons, no intelligence, nothing like zhat. Cigarettes, cigars, any and all forms of tobacco. All of your teammates, even the ones who may not seem to smoke, you search.”

 

The Scout fidgeted. “Why?”

 

“None of your business.”

 

“Well I ain’t likin’ the sound of this, is this some plot to make everyone jittery or somethin’ like that?” The Scout was plenty jittery himself right then, bouncing up and down like a child who had to use the restroom, eyes still fixated on the Tom Jones statuette.

 

“Rest assured, your team will not be at a disadvantage in battle due to my actions. Requisitions come in at seven A.M. two days from now. Zhe battles resume at eight A.M. Zhere would be nothing that I'd be taking away zhat your team wouldn't get back before zhe ceasefire ends.”

 

The Scout fidgeted, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet.  _ “Can’t be that bad…”  _ Scout thought. _ “This isn't a mistake, right? Like he said, they'll get the stuff back before the ceasefire ends? And he'll get a new Tom Jones figurine. Everyone wins. It's really just the right thing to do.” _

 

Scout took a deep breath. “Fine,” he said. A thought occurred to him. “I can't do Spy’s room. The guy’s got a whole place for smokin’ and stuff.”

 

This had occurred to the Medic, too. This was a stealth job, one that required intelligence and awareness of one’s surroundings. Even if Scout had not objected, he would have told him to leave the room alone anyway.

 

“Fair enough. Can you leave zhat room unlocked?”

 

Scout’s eyebrows jumped. “You’re gonna try an’ do it yourself?”

 

“Can you or can you not?” The Medic’s voice was crisp, but his heart was starting to race as he realized he couldn't turn back if the Scout said yes.

 

“Mmm…” the Scout pretended to ponder thoughtfully, weighing the pros and cons, but he’d decided within a second of hearing the deal. “Fine.”

 

He reached up for the Tom Jones figurine and was met with a red rubber glove forcing him into a firm handshake.

 

“Good to know. I'll exchange the toy when you bring back what you've confiscated.”

 

There was frustration on the Scout’s face, but he'd figured the man wouldn’t let him get away that easy. Still, he replied, “It’s a figurine. Limited edition.” He was trying to mimic the slightly smug air that the Medic projected.

 

The Medic smiled at that. “If you say so. I'll expect to meet you at 3 A.M. tonight at zhis location with your job completed.”

 

“Whoa, whoa,  _ whoa _ .  _ Three  _ in the  _ mornin’? _ ”

 

“Do you really zhink people will observe a curfew during a ceasefire?”

 

“Yeah, but…” the Scout scratched his neck.

 

“Too far past your bedtime, zhen?” The Medic raised an eyebrow

 

“Oh  _ naw,  _ I was just wondering if, uh,  _ you’d  _ be awake, cuz, uh, I figured  _ you’d _ turn in early.”

 

“3 A.M., this location, be sure to leave the Spy’s door unlocked and get  _ everything  _ else. Do not leave an ounce of nicotine.”

 

“Got it, got it,” the Scout said, turning away. He scratched his neck and nixed his previous plans for that night― a month’s worth of  _ Ghost D.A.  _ that he’d wanted to catch up on.

 


	3. Sneaking Around Is Difficult and Ill-Advised

Heavy ended up spending the day in the break room-turned-smoker’s-lounge with most of the team. Scout wasn't there, preferring instead to busy himself setting up his “prom” in the training hall. The BLU Spy was not present either, and no one expected him to be; while he had a habit of hanging around the RED base since he and the RED Sniper were announced (or more accurately, found out), he still preferred to stick to the BLU base if there were too many REDs in one room― while everyone was friendly, it still created the sensation of being surrounded. As for the RED Spy, well, as soon as the ceasefire was announced he had strided into the base. Walking back out, suitcase in hand, he’d announced that he’d be back before the ceasefire ended. He’d pulled out in a vehicle from the garage that no one had seen before― a slick red sports car that had to be his own. He hadn’t returned by that time late in the evening, when everyone was gathered, friendly and uninhibited, in the break room now positively filling with smoke.

  
And Medic. Medic wasn’t there either, and every time Heavy noticed he felt a little bit more guilty. And every time he felt a little bit more guilty, he took a drag off of one of the cigarettes he had now spent the day indulging in. After his third one, in fact, Spy refused to let him smoke any more of his French ones, and he was now grabbing from a pack that Sniper had laid on the table.

  
Engie had a storage of food, that was different from their usual rations, that he pulled out at times like this. He lifted platters onto the table around the ashtrays, not worried at all about his masculinity even as he used flowery oven-mitts to set the dishes down.

  
“Ah, we _needed_ this! Couple a’ days off, some beer, some smokes, and now we’ve got chicken-fried steak, courtesy of yours truly,” he said, with a bow of his head on the last line.

  
“Aye, _Engieeeee_ ,” Demo slurred. “Now _howwwww_ do ye put two animals in one piece a’ meat?”

  
“Just eat it, Demo, you're gonna need something in your stomach to cushion that bourbon.” Engie replied.

  
“I dunnae need _anythin’_ to help me get liquor down!”

  
Heavy quietly smiled at the scene in front of him as he started to chew on his dinner. He tried not to let it slip off of his face as he wondered where Medic was, and if he’d be eating alone.

 

* * *

 

Medic was, in fact, skipping dinner entirely. He’d left the birds in his lab to sleep― even Archimedes― and as soon as midnight hit he’d started sweeping the rooms. He’d already checked to make sure Heavy didn't keep cigarettes anywhere in their apartment. He didn't, but he did catch sight of what might have been his birthday present.

  
He went back to Scout’s room and triple-checked to make sure he wasn’t hiding a cigarette addiction. He’d figured he’d searched thoroughly enough when his flashlight shined across the _Lady Playmate of the Month_ calendar under his bed. Clearly, he’d found where the boy put his contraband, but it wasn't cigarettes. Slowly, he backed out of Scout’s room― and remembered to _never touch_ the calendar if it returned back to its rightful place near the respawn area in the base.

  
He knew not to bother with Pyro’s room; the Pyro couldn't smoke, and no one would take advantage of him to use his sleeping area as a storage space (even if they’d tried, Engie would have had their head). He moved ahead, confiscating contraband from least risky to most risky.

  
He figured Demo’s room was the safest to start confiscating; he’d only leave the party passed out, with someone carrying him to his room. He took the stale pack in the room, lying plainly on the table, among at least fifteen odd-shaped things that the Medic guessed had the potential to explode.

  
He grabbed the pack and threw it into the sack he had with him.

  
Soldier’s room was next; while he was likely to still be conscious when he entered the room, he had a habit of losing just about everything he owned, only for it to reappear when he needed it. The team wouldn’t believe that his things were stolen for a long while. He had a half-empty carton of cigarettes, which Medic found after an exhausting sweep of the room. The carton had an eagle across the front and the letters _U.S.A._ emblazoned across all sides, and the Medic wondered who would make such a product.

  
Footsteps came towards the barracks as he tossed the carton in the bag. They sounded too light and too coordinated to be the Soldier, so he opted to stay in the room and listen.

  
“I’m just sayin’, mate,” Sniper called as he walked across the hall, “you oughta be glad you weren't on fire anymore.”

  
There was a response shouted from the dining hall, the details of which Medic could not make out.

  
The Sniper responded with, “ _Goodbye,_ wanker. Goodbye to the rest of ya, too.”

  
Medic heard a the sounds of Sniper going into his room, and he cursed under his breath. He mentally resigned himself to sitting on the floor for a long while― the Aussie could recognize everyone by their footfalls and would be out of his room in a snap to see why Medic was poking around in the barracks.

  
He was surprised― and relieved― when he heard the Sniper leave his room less than two minutes later. Though he wasn’t as good with sounds as Sniper was, he could tell Sniper was leaving the hallway, in the opposite direction from which he came.

  
Medic dared to cane his neck from Soldier’s doorway. Sure enough, the Aussie was gone. Likely gone for a while; he was heading to the outdoors, probably to sleep in his van for the night or something; while he technically did have a room in the barracks, he almost never slept there.

  
Medic waited for a minute, then two. He was not a patient man, though, and after two and a half minutes passed he decided it was safe enough to enter the room that the Sniper had just left.

  
He found cigarette packs neatly stacked up in a row on a shelf.

  
_"These are definitely going to be missed,"_ the Medic thought as he used his hand to sweep the whole neat line into the bag he was carrying, adding some weight to it.

  
He searched the rest of the room. Curiosity was starting to get the better of him― he knew there were no packs anywhere else, but the Sniper didn't seem like one to own personal belongings, so what would be in the drawer near his bed?

  
He heard the hallway door start to creak open and he bolted, mission to find out more about the Australian forgotten. He was going to be found out, for sure.

  
But miracle of miracles, it was stuck. It did that sometimes, when Engie forwent doing maintenance on the base for making new devices.

  
“Piece of _piss_ ― ya wasn’t jammed five seconds ago!” Medic heard Sniper mutter through the door. Medic walked, quickly. He’d gotten everyone who had a room on the barracks, now down the stairs, turn a right (left would be his lab) to Engie’s workshop.

  
Engie was, as he figured, the hardest to dig through. His first initial sweep of both the shop and the bedroom behind it turned up nothing. His second, only a dropped, half-smoked cigarette that likely belonged to Sniper. He realized he'd have to check _within_ the toolboxes and kits to find the things. He made a mental note: if there wasn't anything to find in a box, he wouldn't leave a thing out of place, because Engie had an astonishing memory about what things went where. But if he _did_ end up taking something from a toolkit, he wouldn't bother wasting time putting things back in his place― the missing items would be noticed anyway.

  
He’d found the assortment of cigars and cigarettes he was expecting, but what shocked him was the large― _large_ ― amount of chewing tobacco that took up an entire compartment in one tackle box. His mind flashed back to the odd way the Engineer held his jaw and the way he ground his teeth just about constantly, things he hadn't realized were significant until then.

  
The Medic was at a bit of a loss for words, but that was alright, because he had to be quiet anyway. He packed up and snuck out.

  
It was 2:45. It felt simultaneously like not enough time had passed for what he had done so far, but also like time was passing too quickly.

  
He walked towards the meeting place, deciding to show up early with his spare time, then stopped in his tracks.

  
_“Dummkopf!”_ he said to himself. If the Sniper also kept cigarettes in his van, then the plan would fail. Every ounce needed to be gone.

  
He looked at the van, which was parked a good distance from where he was standing, but still walkable. He made a decision and set the bag down against the wall of the base and headed towards the van. He would knock on the door and tell Sniper he was needed at the base. He was good with words, he could successfully fend off any questions about why he showed up as opposed to someone who may have actually _been_ at dinner. The tricky part would be if he would be able to beat the Sniper back to his own van, since the Sniper would not just leave him alone with the vehicle. Also, avoiding suspicion when he showed up _for the first time_ at dinner. That would be tricky.

  
The van was a good distance away, and the Medic was using all of his brainpower finding holes in his plan and ways to fix them, then new holes that those solutions would create. He wasn’t prepared, though, for when he knocked on the door of the van only for it to swing gently open.

  
Empty. Completely empty. Only the scent of stale urine occupied the van. Medic did not give a second to pause; now, he knew how fast circumstances could change. Sure enough, he found another smooth lineup of packs in the van, on a shelf, below a set of rifles hung against the wall― the déjà vu was unsettling, but the Medic took it as enough evidence to avoid having to do a full sweep of the van; there were only packs on a shelf in the room, by logic there should only be packs on a shelf in the van.

  
He carried the packs in his arms, his neglected bag far away. He walked quickly while still balancing the boxes in his arms, but by the time he shoved them in his bag he had only five minutes to get to the meeting place.

  
He huffed as he trotted to the meeting area. Every area had been checked and accounted for, he had the Tom Jones figurine in his pocket, and the canvas bag he carried still had enough room for what he assumed would be the largest haul of all, BLU Spy’s stash. He was ready.

  
Medic stepped into the area at 3 A.M. exactly. The BLU Scout was slouched against a wall, clutching a large plastic bag.

  
“Drop the bag,” Medic said.

  
The Scout obliged, guarding it with a foot.

  
“Did you get everything?” Medic asked.

  
“Yeah, actually even went into the Sniper’s pissy van and everything.” Scout replied.

  
The Medic mentally slapped himself for not thinking of something that _the Scout_ did.

  
“Did you leave the door to the smoking room unlocked?” he asked, continuing.

  
“Weird thing, it was already unlocked. I mean, like, I didn't go in. But I was pickin’ the lock and then I realized that when I _thought_ I picked it I was actually just lockin’ the door.”

  
“Is that a yes or a no?”

  
“Yeah, it's unlocked, I fixed it. Can I just have…” the Scout drifted off as he gestured.

  
“Take it and leave,” he said, tossing the figurine towards him.

  
The BLU Scout caught it. He debated for a split second to grab the bag and leave the Medic with nothing, but he saw the way the man was eyeing him; like he wanted a test subject for an experiment. So the Scout chose to bolt off for his room as fast as he could run. Maybe, if he got there quick enough, he’d be able to watch a couple of episodes of _Ghost D.A._ before sleep caught him.

  
Medic took the bag and dumped the contents inside his own, tossing the plastic aside. He headed for the east side entrance of the BLU base, perpendicular to where the Scout was running. He could have asked the Scout to lead him inside, but that was more than what the boy would do, he knew. He slipped inside the entrance, which wasn’t rigged to detect RED members except during battles.

  
He walked quietly down the halls. He heard some activity down the hall, from where _their_ common room should be. He kept his footfalls as light as possible. Luckily, he knew the where the BLU Spy’s smoking room was― he, Heavy, and Sniper had stopped by there to pick him up during one of their attempts to go out as two couples.

  
The night had ended with the Spy stabbing a waiter in the back. They were banned from that restaurant, but the restaurant was in Teufort and after they’d entered the city they realized they wouldn't be coming back anyway.

  
Medic grinned a little at the memory. After the incident which he was causing was over, they really should try for something else. Perhaps they were going about it wrong― it might be much more fun if they headed out with the _intention_ of causing havoc.

  
The hallway turned more familiar, though he’d only been down here once or twice. He got to the large wooden door and gently tried the handle― yes, it was unlocked. Medic pondered what Scout said, and wondered why Spy would leave the door unlocked in the first place.

  
_"No time for useless questions,"_ he thought, and opened the door. Medic knew the hardest thing to get would be the Spy’s personal cigarette case which he had on him. Which is why he couldn't believe his luck when he saw the cigarette case lying flagrantly open on the Spy's side table. Then his eyes were drawn to the hat on the floor, followed by the tie a few feet away. After that he noticed a crisp suit jacket thrown carelessly to the floor, as well as a red collared shirt. As he looked at the clothes strewn across the floor, his ears suddenly attuned to the fact that there was noise coming from the room: low moans, breathy grunts, and an unrelenting creaking noise coordinated with a _thump-thump-thump_ that reverberated through the walls.

  
Oh, _Gott_. He remembered what Sniper said on the way to pick up Spy that night: his smoking room and his apartment were connected.

  
He had considered what would happen if any of the other mercs had caught him― brutal revenge, things that might send him through respawn, and he had chosen to go anyway. But _this_ almost caused him to abort the mission.

  
Almost. The job was almost finished, and he stepped around the strewn clothes to get it done.

  
_“Oh-h-h-h-h, mon dieu!”_

  
The sound rang like a bell from the other room.

  
_"Just ignore it, just ignore it, just ignore it,"_ Medic thought as he swept through the room, taking down every proudly displayed foreign pack of cigarettes, the pipes and tobacco, the cigars.

  
_“You’re… you're a damn handsome… bloody bastard!”_

  
The Medic had everything, he could leave. He _did_ leave, practically sprinting back for his own base, for the medical table he slept on when he was mad at Heavy.

  
He had always figured them for the loud type. That may have been the first time in his life that he wished he hadn’t been proven right.

 

 


	4. Look, All Their Stuff Is Gone (Part One)

Sniper was drenched in sweat, lying down next to Spy, still breathing hard.

 

“You look disgusting.” Spy said.

 

“You would look the same, if ya weren't lying down the whole time.” Sniper replied, reaching over to cuff his lover on the ear.

 

“ _Eugh_ , you smell disgusting, too. Don't touch me.”

 

“That’s not what you were saying a couple of minutes ago,” Sniper retorted.

 

The other man grinned despite himself. “Get up,” he said, pushing Sniper towards the edge of the bed.

 

“ _Oi_ , that’s not fair, I just settled in!” Sniper protested.

 

“You can afford to get up for a minute. Just get the case I left on the table.”

 

“Depends. Do I get one of your fancy-pants smokes this time?” Sniper asked, sitting on the edge of the bed.

 

“Not if you call them that.”

 

“That a yes?”

 

Spy looked at his lover perched on the bed. He’s been practically giving them away all day. He owed him one. “Sure, _mi amor._ ”

 

Sniper stood up, slipping on his pants. He turned around for a second to look at Spy.

 

They smiled at each other. “Love ya, ya spook.”

 

“Love you too, bushman.”

 

Sniper left to get the “fancy-pants” cigarettes. Spy snorted. He could call them whatever he liked, they were imported beauties.

 

Sniper poked his head back through the door. “They're gone.”

 

“For God’s sake, if you can't find them, grab one of the ones from a shelf. A _lower_ shelf, not the higher-up ones.” Spy groaned, lying back against the headboard.

 

“No, I mean they're _gone_.” The urgency in Sniper’s voice prompted Spy to sit back up again.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“I mean, everything’s gone. I was gonna grab one of ‘em from the shelf anyway, but the shelves are empty. I wasn’t looking around too much when we came in, but―”

 

“The shelves were _not_ empty when we came in.” Spy interrupted. He swung his legs over the satin sheets, elegance even in his urgency, and slipped on his suit trousers. He walked to the doorway, tucking his dark hair into his mask as he went, and hoped that the bushman was just mistaken.

 

He was not. While Sniper fumbled with his belt, Spy just stared at the empty shelves, his valuables all gone. From the lower shelves of the cigarettes he’d smoke during battle, all the way to the reaches of the highest shelves, where the most superior of imported tobacco was proudly stored next to his best pipes.

 

Sniper found his shirt and tugged it on, and picked up his sunglasses and hat. He glanced at his lover, who was still staring, mask on crookedly, bare-chested, at his empty shelves. He could have sworn he saw his breath shudder just a little bit.

 

Spy saw Sniper looking at him. He broke out of his trance and kneeled down to pick up his shirt. A thought occurred to him, Sniper could see it clear as day when his head snapped up as he was doing up his buttons.

 

 _“Merde,”_ he said. “Whoever this was, whoever _did this_ … they were here not more than two hours ago. My possessions were here when we entered…”

 

Sniper blinked. He looked at the time; about 4:30, he’d just about stayed up through the night. Then the implication hit him. “Oh, God, they were here when―”

 

“You know what? Never mind. Do _not_ think about that right now. All _I_ care about is getting my possessions back, and that means cleaning up _now_ and starting an investigation.”

 

“Are you crazy, spook? There’s different things to be concerned about! They didn’t even take anything valuable, whoever did this must be the biggest bloody addict―”

 

He stopped short and looked straight into the Spy’s eyes. He smoked at least a pack a day, probably more. The lines around his eyes disappeared into his mask, but he could see the Spy’s expression, and it was one of pure dread.

Sniper looked down and said, “Alright, well I know you like your sheets straightened up, so I’ll take care of that. Why don’t you shower and meet me back at my base, love? We can relax there.”

 

“Thank you,” was all the Spy said. He strode quickly for the shower and Sniper heard the water running within a matter of seconds.

 

Sniper sighed. He straightened the sheets, the comforter, and the pillows, all as neatly as he could. He regretted not being able to spend the night, but it was nearly morning anyway. He headed back to his base to shower, and change, and lie on his cot until Spy arrived.

 

He walked to the base. It took a while to get that damn door unstuck again (why?) but he’d gotten to the barracks. He’d taken a shower first, trying his best to be quiet, but there was only so much one can to mute the noise of water hitting tile. Everyone was passed out, anyway, so it didn’t matter.

 

He’d gotten up to his room, hair still wet, and opened the door. He had his lined up on a shelf― he guessed in a way it was a display, of sorts― but he still wanted to make sure the spook saw a pack and lighter set aside just for him, in case he fell asleep before Spy arrived.

 

And his smokes were gone, too. It wasn’t a personal loss for him, but someone… someone had crept right in and had the _gall_ to not only take his stuff, but to snoop around: his bedside drawer was open! At least there was nothing missing from there, not that he would have cared much if there was. It was only jars from when he didn’t feel like getting out of bed in the middle of the night to piss.

 

Demo’s guttural snores rang from the wall across from him, preventing him from getting any sleep. He tossed, and turned. What was taking Spy so long? It was almost six in the morning…

 

Spy burst in the room, startling Sniper so severely he had a blade to Spy’s throat before he realized what was going on.

 

“ _Sacrebleu,_ relax!” Spy yelled.

 

“Bloody hell,” Sniper said. “You scared the _piss_ outta me, spook.”

 

“Please, for everyone’s sake, don’t use that colloquialism again.” Spy replied.

 

“What?”

 

“Just shut up and listen! The entire BLU base had their goods stolen.”

 

“What, didja wake ‘em up to see if they had your stuff?” Sniper said, rubbing an eye.

 

The glare from Spy’s eyes would have burned a hole through him if he didn’t know the spook.

 

“Listen. All of their goods are _gone_ . _Missing_ , as mine were. They’ve set out to go to Teufort to find out what’s going on, possibly look for the instigator.”

 

 _“More likely, to get away from you going through withdrawal.”_ Sniper thought.

 

“I could not join them, of course. But _I_ ,” Spy continued, “I am sure it was someone on _your_ team that did this.”

 

“Now that’s just not true―” began Sniper.

 

“I understand team loyalty, _mon chéri,_ but you cannot deny the evidence!” Spy waved a finger around for emphasis as he paced up and down the room.

 

He then took a deep breath as he sat on the bed, not looking at Sniper as he said, “Now please, _mon amour,_ if you would let me stoop down to your level and hand me whatever tar-laden brand you smoke, I would be in your debt.”

 

Sniper pressed his lips together and sat down next to him. “I was gonna say mine are gone, too. And I ain’t gonna wake up the whole team, but I’d bet good money that so is everything _they_ have.”

 

Spy said nothing, just closed his eyes.

 

“Do ya wanna go to bed, love?”

 

Without a word, Spy reclined on the mattress. Sniper put an arm around him. _“He’s taking this harder than he should,”_ Sniper couldn’t help but wonder as he laid beside him, drawing the Spy closer.

 

 _“No,”_ Sniper thought. _“He never overreacts. He knows something’s in store for him.”_

 

The other man was asleep after just a few minutes. Sniper kissed the top of his head― something he never would have done if they were both awake. He hoped that they would enjoy their sleep, the little of it that they would likely get, because a feeling in the pit of his stomach told him that tomorrow, everything would go to hell. 

 

* * *

 

Sniper woke up less than two hours later by force of habit― no matter how much or how little sleep he got, he always tended to wake up at the same time each morning. And the same went for the spook, because not less than a minute after Sniper’s eyes blinked open, Spy’s hands started to move, seemingly of their own free will.

 

He swatted at the air for a few moments, still more asleep than awake, feeling for the mahogany of his nightstand. When he remembered where he was, he sat up, quick enough to hit Sniper in the jaw with his shoulder.

 

“Oi!” Sniper exclaimed, rubbing his chin.

 

“What time is it?” asked Spy, ignoring the growing pink spot on Sniper’s face.

 

“Ach… like eight-thirty-ish,” he said. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and propped himself up.

 

“Good,” Spy replied. “We can wake your team up now.”

 

“What?” Sniper asked, confused.

 

“It would have been impolite to wake them up last night, and ineffective, considering we’d hadn’t slept yet. But now it's time to wake up your team and start an investigation.”

 

Sniper yawned so wide that Spy could have seen his tonsils if he looked. “You're nuts, spook…”

 

“I'm _strategic._ ” Spy replied. He stood up― how was his suit not rumpled after spending the night sharing a one-person bed with another tall man? “Let’s go,” he said, clapping his hands twice. “We don't have all day.”

 

Sniper wanted to argue that they had at least a few more minutes, that they could enjoy a nice breakfast or at least lie down together for a bloody minute before launching into action with more energy than Scout on two liters of _Bonk! Punch_.

 

Spy’s eyes were darting around the room. His fingers were twitching and his teeth were clenched.

 

Sniper sighed. “Orright,” he said, trying to smooth out the rumples in his clothes― what was the difference between himself and his lover that Spy could wake up and be ready for action? “Why don't you go get the Medic and Heavy? I mean, they know ya. I'll get everyone else and we’ll meet in the common room.”

 

Spy sneered. “You might want to brush your teeth before you get started on that. I can smell your breath from here,” he said, and turned and stalked out of the room without another word.

 

Sniper rolled his eyes and stood up. He was on his way to follow Spy out the door when he yawned into his hand.

 

 _“Crikey,”_ he said to himself, and turned around to brush his teeth, nose wrinkled.

 

Spy, meanwhile, was marching down the hall. He knew how to get to Medic and Heavy’s shared apartment. He flung open the doors to the infirmary (never locked) and walked to the back. He knocked sharply on the inconspicuous door on the back.

 

“Vhat is it?” A very sleepy and irritated voice emanated from _behind_ the Spy.

 

He whirled around. He had _completely missed_ the Medic curled up on the formidable medical table dominating the room.

 

“Earth to zhe BLU Spy?” the man said, sitting up and looking rather like one of his patients. He was down to only his dress shirt (unbuttoned to the third button) and trousers.

 

 _Did everyone sleep in their day clothes?_ Spy wondered for a second. Then he averted his eyes as he saw the Medic putting on his glasses and buttoning up his shirt right in front of him. “My apologies. I had assumed―”

 

Just then a voice came through the door he had just knocked on. “Is there problem?” Heavy’s voice rang out.

 

Medic answered before Spy could say anything. “ _Nein,_ Misha. Just go back to sleep.”

 

There was a prolonged silence, and Medic thought that his lover did, in fact, go back to sleep. He opened his mouth to address Spy when the door opened.

 

“I did not hear you come home last night.” Heavy said. He _was_ in pajamas, a red flannel set that Spy might have chuckled at, if it weren't for the glare on the large man’s face and the crossed arms emphasizing biceps bigger than Spy’s neck.

 

Medic got off of the table, feet gently hitting the ground. “No, you did not,” he said. “I was avoiding you.”

 

Spy was surprised at his frankness, and somewhat embarrassed (if a little curious) to be witnessing what appeared to be a continuing argument.

 

“I hoped to talk.” Heavy stated, deadpan.

 

“And I had hoped not to. Clearly, I was the one who got what zhey wanted― until now.” Medic replied.

 

Heavy’s glare intensified until it could have burned through steel.

 

“Zhis is _not_ the time, Mikhail.” He turned back to Spy. “Now, what did you need from me?”

 

He looked at the giant in flannel, then at the doctor with rumpled hair which he’d never seen him with. He declined to get into the specifics of the situation, instead saying, “Sniper’s gathering the rest of your team to come into the common room. We need your presence, if you may?”

 

Medic nodded. “Expect us zhere in ten minutes.”

 

Heavy pressed his lips together. “Yes.”

 

“Good to hear.” Spy turned on his heel and walked out.

 

When the door closed behind Spy, Heavy looked at Medic, then walked into their shared home in the back, expecting Medic to follow.

 

Medic did. He stepped into the space, basically a large studio apartment, and took out fresh clothes. He changed in the middle of the room, acting as though Heavy wasn’t there; he was not looking, not talking, not acknowledging him in any way.

 

Heavy did not appreciate the silent treatment. He also knew that Medic could keep it up for an unbearably long time.

 

“Talk to me,” Heavy said.

 

Medic smiled to himself, just a bit, as he did up his tie. Heavy wondered if he took some pleasure in making him talk, making him break the silence.

 

 _“Talk to me,”_ Heavy repeated.

 

“Vhat do you want me to say?” Medic replied, leaning in and starting to fix his hair.

 

“We have to discuss yesterday.”

 

“No,” Medic said. “Vhat has to happen is you and I need to be on time. And for the record, Mikhail, I do not appreciate you bringing our private disagreements into other people’s observation.”

 

“Would not have to, if you talked,” Heavy said. He walked over to get his own clothes and Medic moved out of the way for him, sitting on the bed. He fumbled angrily with the dresser, redirecting his anger at the impossibly tiny knobs and the way it stuck.

 

He shouted a curse in Russian as he slammed his fingers in a drawer. He muttered angrily as he threw on his clothes, kicking his pajamas underneath the bed. He paused for breath and stopped as he felt light fingers rubbing gently against his spine.

 

“Let us talk after zhis meeting is over.” Medic said from behind him, apologetic despite himself. “Does zhat sound alright, Misha?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“ _Gut,_ ” the German said. Quickly, he brushed a kiss on the other’s jaw, before saying, “I’ll get going, you can meet me zhere.”

 

Heavy just nodded as the Medic turned around and left.


	5. Look, All Their Stuff Is Gone (Part Two)

Every member on the RED team was present and accounted for, except for the RED Spy. Having the BLU Spy present twisted the scene into an odd version of what they were used to.

 

“Does someone wanna explain what’s goin’ on?” asked Scout, yawning. “Cuz it’s way too early for this.”

 

“I’ll explain,” said Sniper, throwing a glance in his lover’s direction before he could argue. “Anyone notice anything missing from their stuff?”

 

No one replied, but Engie shifted quietly in his chair. Medic was the only one who noticed.

 

“Lemme put this another way: can anyone loan me a smoke?” Sniper asked. Spy shot him a glare, but Sniper was in favor of the demonstration tactic.

 

“Don’t you have your _own,_ maggot? America is _not_ a communist society and if you want a smoke, you get your own! By earning it!” Soldier replied, banging his fist on the table.

 

“That a ‘no’?” Sniper asked.

 

“Yeah, I’ll get you one,” Soldier said, shifting out of his chair and walking to his room. Everyone in the room waited, some more patient than others. When Sniper had a point to make, he would dance around it, then drive it home.

 

Footsteps echoed back towards the room, growing louder by the second as Soldier cried, _“My Eagles are gone! My! Eagles! Are! Gone!”_

 

“Ay, shut yer mouth about eagles!” said Demo. He seemed to be in the transition stage between drunk and hungover.

 

“Sit down, Soldier,” Medic said.

 

“My Eagles are gone.” Soldier replied, sitting down.

 

“What do you mean by ‘eagles’? Oh Lord, you don’t actually have eagles in the base, do ya?” Engie asked.

 

“That would be _ridiculous._ Real eagles _soar with freedom!_ No, my eagles are my All-American, U.S.A.- produced―”

“Cigarettes.” Spy interrupted, finishing his sentence.

 

“How’d ya know?” Soldier asked, his helmet tilting along with his head.

 

“Because,” Spy explained, standing up, “ _every_ tobacco product on both bases seems to have been stolen. Nothing at all taken, except cigarettes and cigars.” said Spy.

 

 _My chewin’ tobacco_ , thought Engie.

 

“Clearly, this criminal had very specific intentions.” Spy said. He sat back down, drumming his fingers on his leg. “We ought to find out who it was.”

 

“I dunno, man, it might have something to do with the voice and the ceasefire and whatnot, we can't screw with that.” Scout argued.

 

“No,” Heavy said, instantly drawing everyone’s attention. “I do not think so.”

 

Everyone stared for a second, until Scout went, “Why, big guy?”

 

“I do not know for sure, but if the voice wanted to do something like this, it would have been done differently, I think.” Heavy said.

 

Everyone was quiet. Heavy was talking; his words were not trivial.

 

Demo scratched his head. “Yeh, wouldn’t they just take away the shipments?”

 

There was a murmur of agreement around the table. “What do we do?” Engie asked.

 

“Go back to bed,” mumbled Scout, chin resting against his hand. His eyes were half closed. No one had seen him with less energy than a hydrogen bomb before, and it was odd to see him tired― it was like a piece of him was missing.

 

It was frustrating to see the boy tired― he was useless without that irritating yet somehow capable energy. “Drink one of your over-caffeinated soft beverages and wake up, then, boy,” Spy said. “Someone breaking into both bases is no light business.”

 

“You know what, he's right,” Engie said. “It's not the worst robbery in the world, but it could escalate.” He snapped his fingers. “Like _that._ Especially if they were just tryin’ to scope out our weak spots.”

 

“Alright.” Sniper said. “Everyone take an hour break, then be back here _awake_ ―” he paused to glare at Scout― “and ready to strategize.”

 

Scout yawned, as he stood up. For the first time, he was the slowest to leave the table.

 

* * *

 

As soon as the door closed on their apartment, Heavy spoke. “You. It was you,” he rumbled.  


Medic didn’t even bother to feign innocence, instead choosing to prepare breakfast. “ _Ja_. It was.”

 

As he whisked eggs in a bowl, Heavy kept going. “Both teams. Everything stolen. Because you were upset.”

 

Medic added the eggs to the pan. “I had my reasons, Misha,” he said as the oil sizzled.

 

“No reasons besides anger.” Heavy said.

 

“Zhat’s not true,” Medic replied.

 

“Where is it all?” Heavy demanded, voice rumbling. “I will return goods and you will not have blame. Everyone wins.”

 

“I can’t let you do zhat, Misha.” said Medic.

 

“You would rather everyone be searched, one by one? And then you will be found out anyway.” Heavy argued.

 

Medic decided to tell him. “Teufort Lake. Zhe goods are at the bottom of Teufort Lake. For at least four hours, now. Surrounded by water and mud, reduced to slop,” he said, as he turned off the stove, eggs finished.

 

Heavy stood. “You are _selfish_ . BLU Spy will likely be suffering soon. You are _doctor_ , you know this.”

 

“ _Ja_.” Medic said.

 

 _“Why?”_ Heavy’s voice was like thunder crashing through the room as he slammed his fist on the table, just to get Medic to _look_ at him.

 

Medic turned to face him, handing the larger man his breakfast. “Come with me,” he said, and left the room swiftly, pushing the door to the infirmary open with his shoulder.

 

Heavy was not ready to let Medic take control of the conversation, but he had to follow.

 

“I was going to. Truly, my intentions were only to hide zhe products. Force the team to look for zhem, be deprived for only a few hours. Perhaps, I’d substitute zhe tobacco in a few items with something I was experimenting vith.”

 

“Get to point.” Heavy’s voice was cold.

 

“Right,” Medic said. “I found our Engineer’s… _‘stash’_ … I believe is zhe right word. He had enough chewing tobacco for me to realize he has an addiction. I did not notice his behavior beforehand, but in hindsight, I realized he uses it all day.”

 

“And why do you care?” Heavy asked. Medic had replaced the man’s hand with a robotic attachment― protecting the integrity of his teammates’ bodies was clearly not an issue.

 

“Look at _zhis_ , Misha!” he said with drama and flair, taking out a liquid-filled jar with _something_ floating in it. Heavy cringed; though he had been living with the man for several months, he still hadn’t― and would likely never― get used to the organs lying about the laboratory.

 

This wasn’t an organ, though. Not exactly. “It’s a _tumor_ , Misha! A _lung_ tumor!” Medic cried out. His voice was something between triumph, scorn… and fear.

 

He went on. “I had _no_ clue as to why our _dear_ Engineer had zhis tumor― a cluster of slow-glowing squamous-cell tissue, by zhe way. I had found it during a routine calibration of zhe Über-implant, and removed it, like so,” he waved the jar around, a small whitish lump. “It couldn’t be healed with zhe Medigun, since it was not a battlefield-inflicted wound, but zhat wasn’t a problem at all― I didn’t even have to remove a lung. I did, however, have to spend a good while making sure I got all of it…” He trailed off, turning the jar with Engie’s tumor in his fingertips.

 

Heavy cleared his throat. Medic shook his head, spit curl skimming across his eyebrows, and returned to the present moment.

 

“Anyway, I _did_ notice zhat his lungs were not in prime condition, but it is only now I realize _why._ And zhat, quite likely, was only zhe tip of the iceberg; I have not done much probing into our teammates’ lungs, and now I do not know what I will find.”

 

Heavy paused, taking it in. He’d known Dell, their Engineer, for a long while now.  And yet… “He had cancer?” Heavy finally asked, not really believing it.

 

“It was benign.” Medic was quiet. “I did a biopsy to make sure.”

 

This was different from the bread tumor scare. This was real, and the air in the room was somber. Though no one on the team called one another a friend out loud, there was a strong sense of camaraderie between them. It was about as easy to imagine Engie dying― _really_ dying― as it was to imagine the sun going out.

 

Heavy spoke. “I will not say anything. But, is there bigger plan?”

 

“As of now, no. And everyone will get their requisitions in two days. Zhis was quite off-the-cuff.” Medic replied. “But perhaps a small detox will do everyone well.”

 

Heavy sighed. “Perhaps. But, I feel trouble is coming.”

 

Medic nodded. “You are likely right, Mein Kuschelbär.”

 

The two returned to the apartment and ate their food. Then, they quietly walked back together to rejoin their team, anticipation building in their chests.

 

* * *

 

The BLU Spy was already feeling more than a little jittery when they walked into the room again. He hated pity, hated the way Sniper’s thumb ran over his knuckles under the table as they took their seats. But dammit, he was feeling foul, so he let Sniper take his hand and grip it tight as they waited for everyone else to pour in.

 

Spy had made the message clear, though. He had decided he was _not_ going to be the one to stress the issue, now that it had been brought to attention. If the team decided to give up on the search, than so be it. Requisitions would come in a matter of days, anyway. His greatest losses would be his pipes, and while they were attractive, they were surely replaceable. If it was the choice of Sniper’s own team, he was _perfectly_ fine with closing an investigation.

 

“I double-checked and there was nothin’ else gone. You were right, Spy. This is a weird robbery.” Engie said. He moved to spit into his empty coffee mug, when he remembered that there was nothing in his mouth. He gulped. “Anyway, what’s the plan?”

 

“Do we even _need_ one?” Scout cut in. He’d taken Spy’s advice and was clutching a jumbo _Bonk! Punch_. “Why should we care?”

 

“Kid, _you_ might not,” Engie replied, “But some of us think that break-ins are worth investigating. They might have searched your room, you do realize that?”

 

Scout fidgeted. Engie was probably right.

 

“So either get onboard, or leave this table, ‘cause if you're gonna complain the whole time we might as well not have you around.”

 

Scout pulled his lips in, thinking. Then, he said, “Ya know, guys, I’d help, but this doesn’t have anythin’ to do with me. And I got bigger stuff to worry about,” he added. “So, bye.”

 

He stood up and left the table. He was shaking a bit under the power of his own actions― he had never left the group of rather grizzly men before. Was he a chicken? No― he was just striking out on his own.

 

As soon as Scout left the room, Soldier said, “This _means_ he did it!”

 

“Nah, the kid’s just impatient.” Engie replied, but Demo shouted over him:

 

“The way you’re talkin’ now, accusin’ a lad the second he leaves the room, well… I bet _you_ did it!” Demo yelled, pointing a finger at him. His eyebrows were furrowed, both at Soldier and at the volume of his own voice.

 

No one else spoke for a good while, until Engie had a realization. “We’re walking straight into their hands.”

 

“Mmmf?” Pyro laid a hand on Engie’s clenched fist.

 

“I'll be damned if I don't wanna know who the perp is as much as anyone else. But, I’d bet good money that whoever did this wanted anarchy.” He elaborated.

 

“You're saying we should let it go,” Sniper said to him.

 

“I'm sayin’ that…” Engie took a breath. “Well, we don't have any evidence. Whoever did it is either in this room, walked out the door, or wherever the hell your team is,” Engie said, directing his last sentence to BLU Spy, who nodded. “Everyone be on your guard, and if anyone gets robbed again, call a meetin’. But this ain’t how I wanna spend my ceasefire. For all we know, it’s got something to do with the voice after all.” He looked at Heavy. “Not implyin’ that your idea didn't seem damn right to me, but we don't know for sure.”

 

Heavy nodded.

 

“So…” Demo asked.

 

“So I think we _should_ let it go. Lock your stuff up, but don't get paranoid. And no interrogating people behind everyone’s back―” he paused to look directly at Soldier. “It’ll just make everythin’ worse.”

 

“Got it,” said Soldier. “ _No_ torture. For now.”

 

“For now,” Engie nodded. “Y’all agree?”

 

There were murmurs of assent throughout the room.

 

“Alright, then. Someone let Scout know.” Spy said as he rose from the table, shaking off Sniper’s hand. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s hiding from everyone.”

 

Sniper shot a look at Spy, but already others were standing up and starting to leave. Spy brushed off his suit, and said, “ _Au revoir_ , everyone.” Sniper followed him as he left, his hands still shaking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gets pretty sexy in the next chapter...


	6. A Good Distraction, But Perhaps Not?

Sniper followed Spy all the way back to his apartment. “Look, love, I don’t know what―”

 

He was cut off by insistent lips pressing fiercely against his own. “All I want is a distraction, _mon cherie,_ ” Spy panted as he drew away for breath. “Can you do that for me?”

 

Sniper’s face was heating up. “Are― are you feeling okay?”

 

Spy drew Sniper in and pressed him against the wall, nibbling at his collarbone. “No. I feel dreadful, thank you for asking, which is _why_ ,” he punctuated the word by moving his hips against Sniper’s, “I would like a distraction.”

 

There was some small rational part of his brain that said maybe this wasn’t the healthiest way of coping with withdrawal. But he wasn’t feeling too well himself, and _god_ he loved the way Spy nibbled at his neck.

 

 _Why not. Why the bloody hell not?_ Sniper thought to himself, and started to work off his shirt. Spy did the same, shrugging off his suit jacket.

 

Sniper growled and took Spy’s lips back against his own as he pushed them away from the wall, towards the bed. Spy didn’t protest, instead using the movement as an opportunity to loosen Sniper’s belt, followed quickly by his own.

 

Spy borderline tripped on the pants around his ankles. He was always suave during sex, but now he was messy, frantic.

 

Sniper was riding Spy less than 12 hours ago, but now Spy was lying down, legs spread eagle and off of the edge of the bed, meaning he wanted to be taken.

 

Spy grabbed Sniper’s hand, which was currently working off the last vestiges of his clothing, and pulled it towards his head. Sniper always stopped and looked at him for this part, when the spook let him take off his mask and he became not Spy, but someone else, someone only Sniper knew.

 

He was so sexy. Sniper made sure he knew this as he kissed him all over his chest, as he lubed himself up, as he grabbed Spy’s legs for leverage and started to use his fingers to stretch him out.

 

“Get on with it, keep going,” Spy moaned, straddling the line between begging and ordering Sniper to go faster. Sniper didn’t want to hurt the spook― he didn’t spend much time stretching him out― but the way his hips were moving made Sniper line himself up against Spy and thrust all the way in at once, earning a cry from both men.

 

Sniper knew his lover well enough that when he started moaning again, hands grabbing at the air, he pulled back and started to thrust as hard as he could. He hit Spy’s sensitive spot almost immediately, making the man beg, truly beg. _“Merde,_ go faster, go _faster!”_

 

Sniper put up his strongest pace, hips moving back and forth, grunting with the effort. He wouldn’t last long, not at the rate he was going.

 

Spy was close, bucking up with his head pressed against the pillow. With Sniper tugging at his prick, he clutched the sheets and cried out in French, spilling over the edge, his orgasm staining his stomach white. He tightened around Sniper and brought him over as well, the bushman groaning as he came inside of the man.

 

Sniper didn’t expect either of them to last very long, considering how recently their last sexual encounter was, and quite frankly, how _tired_ they both were. He pulled out of Spy, making the man shiver, and crawled next to him in the bed. He wrapped an arm around him and fell asleep almost immediately.

 

* * *

 

Sniper woke up alone. When he felt the other side of the bed, the silk sheets were cool. His stomach clenched. He never woke up alone anymore. They’d stopped doing that. He sat up. _It’s his own apartment,_ Sniper told himself, _it’s not like he’d leave here and not come back._

 

It had been over a year since Spy would leave after sex, but suddenly it felt like no time at all. He wondered, for a split second, if Spy was in trouble, if he’d left against his will for some reason, to take care of something. But no. Obviously not; the man was the one who got people into situations, not one who got into situations himself. It was both comforting and hell for Sniper.

 

He checked the bathroom, though he would have heard the water running if he was in the shower. The only thing different was a towel on the floor. Irrational, to think that his lover was hiding from him in his own apartment, but what could he do?  He grabbed the towel and wrapped it around his waist, peeking into the smoking room, checking the kitchenette, the reading (living) room, even the walk-in closet.

 

Nothing but a bunch of blue suits.

 

Sniper walked slowly back to the bathroom and started the shower. _The bloody spook. He said he’d never leave._ Sniper thought. _He promised he wouldn’t_. _Damn bastard._

 

The water was warm. He stepped in. Spy’s dandruff shampoo was in there (nobody but Sniper knew about that), next to his own shower gel. He washed quickly and got out. Toweling off, he wiped the steam from the bathroom mirror. There were two razors on the counter, two toothbrushes on the holder, and Spy’s cologne was set clearly to the far right of the sink.

 

Picking up his razor, Sniper was deep in thought. He basically lived here; though he had his rifles and another toothbrush on the base and in his van, he spent six out of seven nights of the week waking up in this room, walking through the off-limits underground hallway back to his own base to meet his team for breakfast. He didn't even _have_ to sneak around; the teams knew about their relationship. It was simply the quickest way back to his base.

 

He nicked himself, and he let out a string of swear words that was excessive, considering that it didn’t really hurt.

 

He daubed the cut with a tissue, and finished shaving. When he had tried to grow a full beard and mustache once, people could barely look at him. Spy was brutal when he told him it was pathetic, but he did point out that he was a handsome man once he stopped trying so hard to be an Australian stereotype.

 

He wandered back into the bedroom; he did have one or two sets of fresh uniforms, though he usually waited to change when he was back at the base. He dug at the back of Spy’s dresser drawer― so many fancy-pants dress shirts― for a set of his own clothes. The red stood out against the blue.

 

He dressed. He was fresh, he was clean, and after an extra few hours of sleep he was as sharp as he ever was. He ought to go to the base, make small talk with Engie, or maybe take a leaf out of Heavy’s book and do maintenance on all of his weapons; say what you will about the way Heavy talks about “Sascha”, that minigun ran smoother than water off a duck’s back, despite countless battles.

 

Instead, Sniper sat on the edge of the four-poster bed. All of those options seemed pointless right now. Seriously, where the hell was Spy? Sniper had fallen asleep first, and had slept for a couple of hours. Had Spy just left without even trying for some shut-eye?

 

Sniper didn't want the man to be in trouble, not really. But he wouldn't be too upset if it turned out that way.

 

Sniper sighed. If he was gonna wait there like a pitiful fool, which is where this seemed to be going, he wasn't going to stare at the wall like a _total_ bloody moron.

 

Sniper flipped through the book he’d left on his nightstand― well, the nightstand on the side of the bed Sniper slept on, anyway. Spy bought it. It was technically Spy’s.

 

Sniper never had much of a chance to read. Sure, his job required him to stay in one place for long periods of time, but he always had to be focused, or else he'd miss his shot. But he did enjoy those snippets of time when he could sit back and digest a book. It came as a surprise to Heavy when Sniper could talk easily about Dante’s _Inferno_ , and had ended up recommending _War and Peace_.

 

And a bloody year later he wasn't finished yet. Over a thousand pages. He had to read bits and pieces at a time.

 

He hunched over the three-pound book and started reading from where he left off.

 

_“War is not a polite recreation but the vilest thing in life, and we ought to understand that and not play at war.”_

 

Sniper leaned back, thinking about how often the war he was in seemed like a game. It _was_ a game. Kill, die, respawn, whoever gets the all the points wins, whoever deals the most damage is MVP. Fight your doppelgänger, someone oddly reminiscent of you, but _not_ you, and see who wins.

 

He and Spy had a deal where, to keep the voice off of their trails, they’d still backstab and shoot each other, making sure to end it quickly and painlessly so they would respawn without a hitch. Sometimes, Spy would even make a slight wave to Sniper’s scope and stand still, waiting for a headshot. Other times, Sniper would feel a small tap on his shoulder, and he’d close his eyes, opening his eyes in respawn as Spy’s backstab count ticked up by one point.

 

_“War is not a polite recreation but the vilest thing in life, and we ought to understand that and not play at war.”_

 

But wasn’t it definitely playing at war, when you and your lover could kill each other seven times apiece and then share a meal, share a bed, after battle?

 

Sniper closed his eyes and was leaning back on the bedpost, deep in thought, when he heard the door to the smoking room open.

 

Spy's footsteps got louder. He walked into the bedroom with not even a pause. “Finally, you are awake,” he said, glancing at Sniper, who was glaring without a word. His right fist, where he'd be holding his kukri if he'd had it on him, was tightly clenched.

 

“Been awake,” Sniper said. “And where have you been?” He wasn't ashamed to ask the question.

 

“Away,” Spy said. “You were out like you'd been hit in the head and I had better things to do than occupy myself in the apartment, especially considering your snores were comparable to a jackhammer, _oui?_ ”

 

Sniper just stared. The ribbing about his snoring, he got that all the time. But combined with the leaving?

 

_I had better things to do._

 

“You're a bloody ass, spook.” Sniper said, standing up and looking him straight in the eye. “And now I'm going. I've got better things to do than occupy myself in your apartment, piker. G’day.” He spat, literally spat, on the floor.

 

He pushed the tunnel door open and strode towards the RED base.

 

“Spies,” he mumbled under his breath. “Can't trust them for piss.”

 

Spy watched Sniper walk away, an eyebrow raised. After he left, though, he sat back on the bed, where Sniper just was, confused. Sniper was a fairly calm man. He was upset to an _unreasonable_ degree, considering that Spy just wanted to chase off his insomnia, just get out of the house―

 

And he remembered.

 

* * *

 

He remembered the time that he’d left his lover in the middle of the night, because he’d wanted to get out of the cramped, uncomfortable van that he’d never been in. He remembered how Sniper had acted all through the next day, never giving away that anything was wrong. He remembered the sex the next night and how as soon as it was over, Sniper had gotten up to leave, saying nothing but, “I’ll see ya tomorrow, then.”

 

Spy had reacted poorly, of course. The pointed jabs and snide accusations were like knives thrown across the room towards each other, until Sniper finally barked, “I know ya like to sleep alone, bastard. I was just tryin’ to save ya some trouble, must be hard to sneak out of your own bedroom, wouldn’t it be?”

 

Spy had actually let his jaw drop as he realized what he’d done.

 

Sniper scoffed. “If ya didn’t want to do anything more than screw you should’ve told me, I could have flipped on the light to help you find your way out. Don’t worry, though, starting now, I won’t overstay my welcome.”

 

“You’re not unwelcome,” Spy had said in a quiet voice. Sniper turned around, ready to argue his point, when he saw that Spy’s mask was off.

 

He didn’t speak. Spy hadn’t taken off his mask before. His hair was graying at the temples and pressed flat from the cloth. His chin had a dimple in it, and he had a shadow of stubble across his face. Because, supposed Sniper, he didn’t have to shave it; it was under the mask anyway.

 

“You’re not unwelcome,” Spy said again. “Please, stay.”

 

Sniper got back onto the bed and leaned over to Spy, eyes darkened with lust and something else. “If the van is too small we can always meet here.”

 

“That’s a good plan, bushman.”

 

“I can just take the hallway back to the base in the morning.”

 

“You’d better get familiar with that path, then,” Spy had said, right before Sniper caught him in a fervent kiss.

 

The sex the second time around was even better. Unbridled passion made for good lovemaking.

 

* * *

 

Spy remembered all of this. He settled his head in his hands. _“Merde,”_ he said to the empty room. He _was_ an ass. If Sniper had done that to _him_ …

 

Spy looked towards the open door towards the empty shelves of his smoking room. What he’d lost was elaborate, conspicuous to even those who did not know the man well. But Spy had been with Sniper for a while, had been with the man first thing in the morning and throughout the night. He always took cigarettes with his coffee, and he was almost never seen without that _#1 Sniper_ mug in one hand. Sniper couldn’t have been feeling much better than Spy.

 

Spy groaned. He _hated_ this part of being in a “real” relationship― not the fighting per se, but being _wrong_ , having to _apologize_.

 

The feeling _guilty_.

 

He walked through the hallway that Sniper had just been through. He didn’t exactly know what he was going to say, but the hallway was long, and Sniper had a tendency to be always be holed up somewhere. He’d have figured out what to do when he found him.

 


	7. Scout Asks Everyone To Prom

Sniper _was_ holed up, along with Pyro, Engie, Demo, and Soldier. Sniper would have been in the common room, trying to stave off his uneasiness, when Demo barreled into the room, shoulders hunched, eye darting around as he grabbed Scrumpy and beer from the liquor cabinet.

 

“What the―!” Sniper exclaimed.

 

Demo did a double take. “ _Bo_ _yo!_ We figured you’d be spendin’ the day with yer Spy sweetheart over at the BLU base.” Demo spoke in a harsh whisper.

 

Sniper glared, cheeks burning. “We ain’t sweet―”

 

“Yeh you are, but now’s not the time.” He glanced around the room exaggeratedly, as though he was stealing the Scrumpy and beer instead of taking it from his own base’s pantry. “C’mon and _be quiet._ ” Demo said in a whisper that was louder than if he’d just spoken normally.

 

“Wait, why? _Oi―_ where’re we goin?” Sniper asked as Demo grabbed his arm and started to drag him along.

 

“ _Shush!”_ Demo whispered. “Who _knows_ where Scout could be? The lad’s been tryin’ to hand out invitations for his ‘prom’. We’re just holin’ up in the intelligence room right now.”

 

“And why,” Sniper asked as he was pulled into the room, Demo sealing the door behind him, “can’t ya just tell the ankle-biter that nobody cares?”

 

“Well…” Demo scratched his head. “Yeh know how he is about Pauling. Kid doesn't wanna hear it. And no one wanna be tellin’ him. The kid just seems so excited.”

 

“Mm hmmf,” Pyro agreed, holding up an invitation which said, _“You are invited to the R.E.D. team promenade! (Hosted by the esteemed Scout)”_. The invitation was handmade and actually quite elegant― did Scout always know calligraphy or did he teach himself in twelve hours?

 

“Apparently Pauling thought his big ‘ol date he had planned was some sort of dance. Then there was the whole bread incident, and he never had to explain it.” Engie elaborated on the situation.

 

Sniper shook his head. “Wait, wait, wait. So… the boy’s plan is to _actually_ say that he was hosting a prom all along?”

 

Everyone in the room nodded.

 

“That is the _worst_ excuse for a crap date I’ve ever heard.” Sniper said.

 

Everyone in the room nodded again.

 

Engie spoke. “Ya know, I kinda feel bad. We don’t show up, it’ll be an even bigger flop. And the chances for that poor sumbitch are, statistically speaking, zero.”

 

“But not bad enough to go.” Sniper said as he sat down.

 

“Nah.” Engie replied.

 

“Mpphrr phh fuhh!” Pyro exclaimed, waving the invitation in the air.

 

“Oh yeah,” Engie said. “Pyro over here thinks it’ll be fun.”

 

“You know the rules, _maggots!_ Either _everyone_ goes, or _nobody_ goes! And right now, we are in the stance of _nobody going!_ ” Soldier scolded the room, followed immediately by a chorus of shushes.

 

“Hudda…” Pyro nodded sadly.

 

* * *

 

“Yo, Spy! Uh, _other_ Spy! Yo! Over here!” Scout’s voice rang through the empty halls straight to BLU Spy’s ears.

 

Spy set his shoulders and took a deep breath as Scout ran up to him. “What?” he asked crisply.

 

“Where are all the others?” Scout asked.

 

“I should be asking you that myself.” Spy replied. “They are your team, aren't they?”

 

“Yeah, but… I ain’t seen ‘em anywhere!” Scout seemed panicked. “I only found Pyro, and―”

 

“For God’s sake, shut up.” Spy rubbed his brow.

 

“Well― yeah, okay. But― listen, take this, okay?” Scout held out a cardstock envelope, which Spy took between two fingers. “I've gotta go find the others.”

 

* * *

 

“Pass the Scrumpy,” Engie said. They were all still sitting down in an awkward circle. Sniper wished he'd brought _War and Peace_ , but he satisfied himself with playing poker with Pyro and Soldier― both of whom were much better than they looked.

 

Suddenly there was the sound of rapid footfalls, coming seemingly out of nowhere and growing louder by the second. Scout burst into the intelligence room as fast as they'd see him move on the battlefield, glazed in sweat.

 

“ _There_ ya guys are! I've been lookin’ everywhere! I mean, _everywhere_ ! Why are you even _here_ anyway?” Scout panted.

 

“We were avoiding you!” Soldier declared before anyone else got a word in.

 

Scout’s jaw dropped as he looked to Demo, then Sniper, then Engie. The studious lack of eye contact proved that Soldier was right.

 

“Aw― c’mon, man!” he said, looking at Pyro.

 

Pyro launched into a muffled rant that not even Engie could understand.

 

“I just― I― _please, you guys!_ ”

 

“Kid, look, no one wants to come to your party. You might as well just throw in the towel on this one, you know what I mean?” Engie said gently.

 

“You don’t understand, Miss Pauling _already_ said she’d come. And she only did it ‘cause I said that the team was gonna be there. _You can’t do this to me, guys!_ ” Scout was trembling in his shoes. “How am I supposed to back out now?”

 

Everyone else in the room exchanged long, slow glances at each other. Scout may have claimed to be a man’s man, but he was really the juvenile delinquent of the team, giving the more worldly members more than a hint of nostalgia. They remembered what it was like to be young and lovestruck (and frankly, desperate).

 

Engie sighed. “Kid… you owe us one.”

 

The sound of Pyro’s quiet clapping hands accompanied Scout’s sigh. He dropped the invitations on the floor and said, “Gotta go, gotta get ready, so do all of ya guys! Bye!” He paused. “Wait― can one of ya find Heavy and Medic and tell ‘em?”

 

Sniper knew where their apartment was. “I’ll take care of it.”

 

He ran out of the room and almost collided into BLU Spy.

 

“Didja read it?” Scout asked him.

 

“Yes. It sounds moronic.” Spy looked past Scout, to where he just came from.

 

“Well, everyone else is goin’ so you oughta go too.”

 

Spy scoffed as Scout ran away, aiming to shower, and change, and put on a suit.

 

As Scout would soon realize, he didn’t own a suit.

 

Everyone in the intel room started to wander out, those who were there the longest stretching their limbs. Pyro was jumping up and down at the prospect of going to a nice party with balloons and streamers and maybe a disco ball. Everyone else was dreading it.

 

Sniper was the last to exit, meeting Spy in the hallway. Everyone shuffled quickly away from the two. Their relationship was like Scout’s overbite; it was obvious it existed, but everyone was just more comfortable if it wasn’t mentioned.

 

“Hello again, spook,” Sniper said, eyes downcast. He’d never been one to lose his temper.

 

 _“Bonjour,”_ Spy replied. He had been wrong; he didn’t know what to say.

 

The two men were quiet as they started to walk down towards the tunnel. Together, towards Spy’s apartment. _A small blessing_ , thought Spy.

 

“Did Scout really convince everyone to go to this promenade he was hosting?” Spy asked.

 

“Apparently Miss Pauling already RSVP'd, expects everyone to be there. Might as well give the kid a chance.” Sniper explained.

 

Spy nodded. “Sounds terrible.”

 

“Really does.” Sniper nodded.

 

Spy reached out for Sniper’s hand, both of them still staring straight ahead. “Will you allow me to escort you, then?”

 

Sniper cast a glance towards Spy. “You askin’ me to be your date to the prom?” He cracked a small smile.

 

“Well, perhaps.” Spy was blushing, but hiding a smile of his own.

 

“Why not, then?” Sniper interlaced his fingers with Spy and brought them together, face to face, as though they were ready to dance.

 

“ _Fantastique,_ ” said Spy, “but Lord, I hope you don’t actually expect to be dancing.”

 

“You may not know this,” said Sniper, “but I’m a bloody great dancer.” He bent down and kissed Spy as he started to do a waltz in the middle of the empty hall.

 

Neither man would admit to dancing back to the apartment, back to the bedroom, back into bed.

 

* * *

 

“How on earth did Scout convince everyone to participate in zhis?” Medic asked, squinting through his glasses at the invitation.

 

“Guilt trip,” Sniper plainly stated. “That, and Miss Pauling’s already goin’ to be there. Wouldn’t want her to be expecting us and then we don’t show up.”

 

Heavy nodded. Miss Pauling was a friend to the team, but she did also carry authority over them― something Scout often forgot when he approached her.

 

Medic snorted. “ _Black tie only_. Clearly, this boy does not have a clue vhat he is doing. Spy, I think you are the only one who even owns a suit.”

 

“Several,” Spy smirked, straightening his tie.

 

“Wait a minute, that ain’t true, we all had to get suits for that one thing―” Sniper snapped his fingers in frustration. “I remember it, it was―”

 

“Zhe stockholder’s banquet. For both teams. Two or three years ago.” Medic answered for him.

 

“ _Non_. Closer to four, I think.” Spy commented.

 

“Ha,” Sniper laughed. “I think I _do_ have that suit.”

 

 _I hope mine still fits,_ thought Heavy as he nodded in agreement.

 

“Oh, _verdammt_ ,” Medic said, before bursting into a fit of laughter. “Scout wasn’t hired when zhat event happened.”

 

“Crikey, you sure?” Sniper asked, nearly laughing himself.

 

“ _Ja!_ I remember because zhe next day was vhen Pauling came up and said zhe meeting was so successful, we were going to have a new team member.” Medic had a wicked grin, thinking about Scout’s obvious misfortune.

 

All of them started chuckling, thinking about the poor boy’s situation. Even as Spy and Sniper left, they still were laughing.

 

In fact, as they laughed, Scout was fresh from the shower, towel wrapped around his waist, digging through his closet for something― anything― that could be considered formalwear. The contents of his dresser were strewn across the floor as he realized the only clothes in his closet were things he wore on the battleground. He only had one pair of shoes and those had dust and dirt permanently ground into them.

 

Scout groaned as he realized his solution. Clad in his boxers, he looked down one end of the hall. Empty. He looked down the other. Empty. He took a deep breath and ran faster than he’d ever had before.

 

Within seconds he was in the room at the end of the base’s barracks. The RED Spy’s room.

 

 _“I’m never gonna live this down. Or he’s just gonna kill me.”_ Scout thought as he made his way to the closet. At least the RED Spy had a touch of sympathy for him and his quest to get Miss Pauling. And the fact that he was gone, that was just good fortune right there.

 

Why did Spy have so many suits? There was a whole bunch of just the kind he wore on the battlefield― for that matter, why did he wear suits on the battlefield? There was also a suit with gold buttons, one that had some sort of vest, one that had a weird fancy-ass collar― not to mention the sheer number of ties, dress shoes, and of course, ski masks and gloves.

 

Scout gulped. He couldn’t use any of the suits that Spy wore on a regular basis, otherwise it’d be obvious that he was borrowing clothes, and that would be just downright embarrassing. He shifted through the hangers until he found a simple black suit he’d never seen Spy wear.

 

He was halfway dressed when he heard: “Well, I dunnae how he convinced me to go, but I’m goin’. And I ain’t goin without a bottle of the good stuff. Spy’s gotta keep some here.”

 

“Maybe ya oughta put it in a flask and spike the punch with it. Take yourself back to the good ol’ days.” Engie was laughing as he pushed open the door.

 

_“Ahhhhh!”_

 

_“Woah!”_

 

_“Ay!”_

 

 _“Don’t worry_ , _”_ thought Scout as the door slammed closed. _“This is gonna work out.”_

 

Demo chortled from outside the room. “Agh, the lad’s _doomed!_ ”

  
Scout tried not to let the echo of the word _“doomed”_ bring his attitude down.


	8. The Prom Is Begrudgingly Enjoyable

Miss Pauling was in a long, satiny dress, gathered at the waist and cut a bit low in front― much nicer than her usual work getup, though it was still purple. With her feet in heels and her hair let down, she wondered why she put so much effort into this.

 

She looked at the carefully crafted invitation in her hand as she walked toward the RED base. She supposed it would be fun. It would definitely be _weird_ , but it’d be nice to catch up with some of the mercs again. And judging from the effort put into the invitation― not to mention the prom Scout tried to throw last time― there’d definitely be some fond high school memories going around.

 

Pauling nearly twisted her ankle three times from the distance between her moped to the common room of the base. Getting caught in a crossfire, no sweat. Heels? No, thank you.

 

She was trying to brush some stray dirt off of the hem of her dress, wondering why on earth she thought she could ride a moped in a gown, when she met Scout at the entrance of the common room.

 

His jaw dropped. She didn’t notice, instead handing him the invitation with a simple, “Hey, Scout.”

 

“H-hey, Miss Pauling. It’s good to… _wow_. I mean, you look…” He couldn’t get any of his words out right.

 

“Thanks, I guess. You’re lucky that I had another day off, wasn’t expecting it.” Miss Pauling was focused on a clump of dirt near her shoe.

 

“Us neither, uh, yeah. Real lucky.”

 

She stood up, satisfied with her work, and smiled at him. At that moment, he was on cloud nine.

 

“So, uh, this is weird. Wanna go inside?” she asked him.

 

“Yeah!” Try as he might, he couldn’t keep the grin off his face or the smile out of his voice. He took her hand and led her in.

 

By this time, all of the other mercs had arrived. Everyone turned to face the woman in a stunning (if slightly muddy) purple dress.

 

“Yeah, you’re kinda the guest of honor,” Scout said softly as everyone went back to what they were doing. That is, Demo was spiking the punch. Pyro―whose formal suit was buttoned _over_ the usual fireproof one― was dancing and clapping underneath the disco ball. Medic was making an attempt to free his birds, who were in golden dangling cages like so many decorations, and getting up the nerve to try dancing later. And the rest of the mercs were standing around, talking about their own high school experiences, or lack thereof.

 

Demo offered both of them a lovely glass of punch spiked with a good dose of vodka. Scout was about to turn the offer down, when Pauling graciously accepted. “This is really a _prom!_ ”

 

They walked towards the group talking at the edge of the dance floor.

 

“Ah, y’all wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” Engie was saying.

 

“I want to _hear it!_ Yell it loud and yell it proud, who was your school’s prom king and queen?” Soldier barked.

 

“Why do we care…?” Spy didn’t ask this question with disdain, but rather with a smirk on his face. “It’s not like we knew them… or _did_ we, Dell?”

 

“ _No bloody way,_ ” Sniper said.

 

“The spook’s right! It was me and my prom date, Isabella Crawfield. With them heels she was wearing, she was close to six feet tall that day. We looked mighty odd.” Engie was laughing.

 

“ _Oi!_ ” Sniper tugged an arm around Spy’s shoulders. “Only I’m allowed to call him Spook.”

 

The mercs heard Miss Pauling’s presence by her laugh. “Why hello, Pauling,” Engie said. “Nice of you to join us.”

 

She was too busy giggling to appreciate his Southern charms. “Did you wear the Prom King crown and everything?” she asked, wiping a tear from her eye. These mercs were a riot sometimes!

 

“Yes, indeed, ma’am. And I got to keep it.” Engie was still smiling.

 

“Aw, _man!_ I gotta see that!” said Scout, laughing himself.

 

“You ain’t never gonna get the chance, son.”

 

Spy was busy counting the double negatives in his head when Pauling spoke. “What about you, Soldier?”

 

“Yeah, what fresh hell did you raise?” Engie asked him. “I went, now it’s your turn.”

 

“I spiked the punch!” Soldier said simply.

 

“Ah, classic.” Scout rolled his eyes.

 

“But I did it wrong!” Soldier continued.

 

Medic came back from his birds, and Demo came back with a second round for everyone, as Soldier continued.

 

“Everyone said, _‘You have one job! Spike the punch! An idiot can do it! Don’t mess it up!’_ ”

 

“And ye messed it up,” said Demo, shaking his head.

 

“I took every thumbtack I could find, and when the time came I dumped them all in at once! The punch had spikes, so the job was done! Except apparently not.”

 

“Oh, lord,” Engie said, shaking his head.

 

“I am not quite sure what happened after that. They told me that spiked punch was the best, so I drank a good gallon of the stuff, and woke up in a hospital bed!”

 

At this, Medic cried out. “Some of them, zhey are still zhere! I asked myself, ‘why are all of zhese tacks so ingrained in your intestinal wall? Now I know!” He then collapsed into a fit of chortles and snorts, laughing so hard that Heavy wrapped an arm around his waist to keep him standing.

 

It was okay. Pauling knew about both couples. She did have to keep the secret from her boss, but of course the mercs didn’t know that.

 

“Ay, Sawbones, we didn’t need to hear _that_.” said Demo, wincing.

 

“Don’t be such a _baby_ , that was _funny!_ ” this came not from Medic’s mouth, but from Pauling’s.

 

“I was going to say, you don’t talk about such things in front of a lady.” Spy said.

 

She raised an eyebrow. “You guys do realize, I get reports on your medical check-ups. Whatever you’re keeping from me for the sake of decency, I probably already know.”

 

“Doc, is this true?” Sniper asked, raising an eyebrow.

 

“For everyone but me, _ja_.”

 

“No, you too, Medic. It’s really easy to grab the file when you’re not looking. I’m more curious as to how you do an internal exam on yourself, but… I’m not sure I wanna know, actually.” Pauling replied.

 

“But…”

 

“You have to come up with a better combination than Archimedes’ birthday. For that matter, why does Archimedes even _have_ a birthday? Oops,” she said. “Now everyone knows the combination!”

 

“Alright, I think that’s enough of the punch.” Scout said.

 

Pauling laughed. “I’m not a lightweight. It’s just _fun_ to act silly sometimes, Scout!” she turned somber. “I hardly ever get to do it anymore…”

 

She blinked twice and asked, “What about your prom, Scout? What was that like?”

 

“Uh…” he did _not_ want to tell Miss Pauling the story of how he showed up without a date, in jeans, and lost his virginity in a car to a girl that never called him. “Not much to tell, really. Just a prom.”

 

God bless Demo. “Lad, that’s boring! I skipped out on my school dance. But I sure as hell went to the afterparty, and lemme tell ya, when the one-eyed kid from school shows up with drinks and explosives, _that’s_ when the party _really_ begins.” He took a long drink straight from his Scrumpy bottle. “I don’t even _remember_ it. Everything I know is from what people told me when I woke up the next day.”

 

“Oy vey,” Spy said, turning his head away.

 

“Ah, shut up, spook,” Demo began.

 

“ _Oi!_ ” Sniper interrupted.

 

“Yeh don’t have any stories to tell, ‘cause you didn’t do anything or go anywhere.” Demo finished.

 

“Exactly. I went to the formal graduation banquet, and went home. There wasn’t even a party hosted in the first place, but if there was, I would not have attended. I had a diploma, and there were no humiliating memories created.” Spy said.

 

“Aww, now that’s just disappointing, love. Wanted to hear a few funny stories.” Sniper said, holding Spy just a bit closer.

 

The rest of the group murmured in agreement. Spy was always so respectable, it would have been funny to hear a story of him as a teenager.

 

“For what it’s worth, I did not have zhat experience either. All of my peers got together and had decided I was banned from any and all graduation events.” Medic chimed in.

 

“Aw, I’m sorry, doc.” Demo raised his bottle in sympathy.

 

“Don’t be, it was a wise decision on their part.” He chuckled. “The zhings I would have tried to pull…”

 

“There is no dance for myself, either.” Heavy rumbled from behind Medic, giving no further explanation.

 

“That leaves you, Snipes!” Scout pointed at the assassin.

 

“Yes, yes it does.” Spy looked at him sideways. “Go on.”

 

“I ain’t gonna say much, but I will say this: you can’t get a date in Australia if you don’t have a mustache, but that was okay, because the entire place ended up being rushed by a mad herd of sheep.”

 

“You can’t just leave us hanging like that!” Scout said.

 

“Yeh, tell us the story!” Demo demanded.

 

“You _will_ have to elaborate on that, mark my words, _mon cher_.” Spy poked a finger into Sniper’s ribs.

 

The group’s protests were interrupted by music ringing through the room. _“_ _It's not unusual to be loved by anyone… It's not unusual to have fun with anyone…”_ Pyro was standing by the player.

 

“Hey, that’s Tom Jones right there! I oughta take stock of my collection, make sure I’m on track.” Scout said. No one noticed Medic tugging at his collar.

 

“The man is _not_ going to die anytime soon.” Spy rolled his eyes.

 

“It’s a plan, and it’s a good plan.” Scout pointed at the taller man.

 

“Why don’t we just go dance?” said Miss Pauling. _“Before a fight breaks out over Tom Jones,”_ she thought.

 

“Dance? Yeah, dance. Let’s dance. Right now,” said Scout, leading Miss Pauling to the dance floor, immediately under her (unintentional) trance again.

 

He gulped. Put one hand on her waist, the other hand clasping her hand, like the RED Spy had taught him. They watched the others disperse.

 

Medic took a large gulp of his drink. “Alright, I am inebriated enough to attempt this now,” he said, and Heavy started to lead him to the middle of the room.

 

“Wait, no, not quite yet,” Medic turned around. He wasn’t a bad dancer, it was just the risk of embarrassment that got to him. But he was getting better with that, for Heavy’s sake. He still needed to be a bit tipsy before he could risk it, though.

 

Heavy smiled despite himself. “Do not worry,” he said, pulling the man back in.

 

“Oh… alright.” Medic allowed himself to be led around a corner of the room, face bright red.

 

As promised, Sniper was an excellent dancer, as was Spy. The only question was, who would lead?

 

Everyone else was either tapping their toes to the music or, in Pyro’s case, doing some sort of solo kickline at the side of the room.

 

As the second song started, the bickering and stepped-on feet had ceased from Sniper and Spy’s section of the dance floor. They started to do an _amazing_ cha-cha, so good that Scout wouldn’t be able to make fun of them for the fact that they were doing the cha-cha in the first place. As the song went on, the room started to watch. They didn’t stop. If anything, they amped it up for their audience.

 

“Ha-ha,” Scout giggled nervously, much less confident in his own dancing abilities. “Do they practice or somethin’?”

 

“Who knows?” Miss Pauling smiled. “Oh, technically, he’s not supposed to be in your base,” she said, nodding her head towards BLU Spy. She leaned in. “But between you and me, I couldn’t care less. This is great.”

 

Scout’s heart rate skyrocketed. He knew she was probably just being friendly, but this was a darn good first step. He smiled. “Yeah. Ya know, maybe next time, we should just forget about the whole party setup and go straight to dinner. Or, or somethin’. I dunno.”

 

Miss Pauling smiled. Most of the time Scout’s attempts to ask her out were half-baked, frantic, and involved flexing. She didn’t really find it appealing. But this time…

 

“I’ll think about it. But like I said before, you’re always welcome to ride with me on some jobs. Maybe sometime we could pick up requisitions in town together, if you want.” she said.

 

Scout nodded so fast he risked clipping Miss Pauling on the head with his chin. “Oh, yeah, yeah!”

 

“Not tomorrow, though, those shipments are already here and ready to be distributed.”

 

“Ah, that’s okay. Uh… two weeks, then, right?” Scout asked. Would he still need a suit?

 

“Yeah.” Miss Pauling replied. Scout did have his charming side. She hoped it would be present, as opposed to the _aren’t-I-so-cool-just-look-at-my-muscles_ side.

 

“Uh…” Scout’s face turned red. “So, it's a date?”

 

Miss Pauling smiled and shrugged. “Let’s see how it turns out.”

 

Mixed signals! _Why? Why with the mixed signals?!_ Scout could barely handle it.

 

“Um, I’m gonna change the topic,” Scout said.

 

 _“Why did I say that out loud?”_ he yelled to himself.

 

“So, it’s been a crazy few days, hasn’t it?” he continued.

 

“Was it? I’ve been doing paperwork most of the time.”

 

“Oh, _right_ , you don’t know. Someone stole all the cigarettes and stuff from everyone’s room, from _both_ teams. Wait, how do you not know? Seems like something you’d know.”

 

“Well, this is _literally_ the first time I’ve been out since the ceasefire started.”

 

“Yeah, well anyway, it was weird.”

 

“Why would Medic do that?”

 

Scout’s head whirled around to look at Medic, who was out of sight as he attempted to waltz with his larger dance partner. “Whadda ya mean? There was gonna be a search party, but they nixed that idea. I mean, I dunno why everyone was so antsy about it anyway.”

 

“Scout…” Miss Pauling’s voice was soft. “You’re kidding, right…?” Did he not understand?

 

“What?”

 

She moved in closer, so she wouldn’t be heard. “You do realize that everyone was going through _withdrawal_ , don’t you?”

 

“Uh… no?”

 

Miss Pauling clamped down the urge to call him an idiot. “Scout, what would happen if I took away your _Bonk! Punch_ for no reason, without any warning?”

 

“Well, I’d go flippin’ insane. Ya don’t just take that stuff away and leave me with nothin’.” Scout replied.

 

“Well, it’s the same for every smoker in here. Not so much Soldier and Demo, but Sniper, Spy, Engie―”

 

“Wait, what?” Scout interrupted.

 

She ignored him. “They all probably feel like, well, like total _crap_ right now.”

 

“What about Engie? And what does Medic have to do with this?”

 

“Oh… I guess he didn’t tell you.” Miss Pauling glanced across the room towards the Engineer, laughing with Demo.

 

“What?”

 

“It’s not my place, Scout.”

 

“But…” Scout wheedled. “This sounds important.”

 

It was. And Scout was the worst and best person to tell, because soon, the whole base would know. Maybe that was a good thing. She didn’t want anything to happen to the mercs. She could always blame it on the vodka.

 

“Engie… had a tumor.” she was whispering at that point.

 

“No, they made sure, the teleporters only gave tumors to bread.”

 

“No, no, Scout. He had a lung tumor. He’s got a chewing tobacco problem, in case you didn’t know.” she figured he might not, seeing how naïve he was about everything else. “And it turned out there was a tumor in his lung, probably because of that. Luckily, it was benign.” Seeing the look on Scout’s face, she added, “It wasn’t going to kill him.”

 

“Oh, god…” Scout said. “That’s… that’s the real deal right there.”

 

“Mmm hmm. Maybe Medic took everything away cold turkey, to get everyone to quit or something, I don’t know. It probably won’t work, but I get it.”

 

“Yeah…” Scout said.

 

“Well, I guess you can call it a learning experience? Or maybe a wake-up call?” Miss Pauling raised her shoulders.

 

“That’s scary. I mean, like, I’m not scared of things, but―”

“I know, Scout.” she paused. “It ought to be a good idea to get everyone a better checkup. Yeah, that’s something that I should ask Medic about.”

 

Scout winced at the idea of the crazy doctor poking around his lungs. But she was probably right. “Ask him later, though,” he said, looking at the man, who was now forgoing dancing in favor of just leaning against Heavy.

 

She smiled, just a little. “Yeah.”

 

She was sure it would turn out fine.

 

* * *

 

Sniper and Spy were back to a slower-paced waltz.

 

“The worst is over, right?” Sniper commented.

 

“Oui,”

 

“And requisitions will be here tomorrow mornin’.” Sniper continued.

 

Spy nodded.

 

“Ya don’t look too glad.”

 

“ _Non,_ I was just thinking. It’s going around that your Engineer had a lung tumor.” Spy said.

 

“Where’d you hear that?”

 

“Just now. Their conversation.” Spy nodded towards Scout and Miss Pauling.

 

Sniper was about to roll his eyes when it occurred to him to ask. “Wait, who said it, Pauling or the rugrat?”

 

“Pauling, of course. If it was Scout I wouldn’t be thinking about it.”

 

“You’re thinking about it?”

 

“Naturally,” Spy said.

 

“And…?” Sniper asked.

 

“I’m not going to quit, if that’s what you’re implying. But I should cut down. Contrary to popular belief, I am not made of money, and the habit is getting more expensive with the cost of imports rising.” Spy said.

 

Sniper could see through his excuses. “Well, I’m glad you’re planning to stick around, love.” Something occurred to him. “You’ll need a watchdog.”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“Ya know, someone to make sure you don’t slip up and go through half a pack in an hour.” Sniper elaborated.

 

“What are you saying?”

 

“Ask me to move in for real already so you can quit makin’ fun of my van. I’m already spendin’ most nights at your place.” Sniper got the words out quickly.

 

A beat of silence.

 

“I’m never going to stop making fun of your van,” Spy said, discreetly planting a kiss on the other man’s neck. “But please, do move in. Just make sure to have a backup plan in case it turns out that the hallway between our bases is closed off at some point.”

 

“Ever wonder why it’s not?” Sniper asked.

 

“I choose not to question good fortune.” Spy replied. He eyed Scout and Miss Pauling dancing. “I assume there will be no objections if we leave now.”

 

“I dunno, I’m having a little bit of fun.” Sniper asked.

 

“Perhaps, but you’re forgetting the most important first step of someone moving in.”

 

Sniper glanced around. No one nearby. He leaned in close to Spy’s ear and whispered, “Please tell me you are suggesting moving-in sex?”

 

Spy put a hand on his lover’s chest. “If we’re hasty to leave, we’ll have attention drawn to ourselves.”

 

“To hell with that,” Sniper said. “C’mon, let’s go.”

 

“Ever the romantic,” said Spy, rolling his eyes, but he let himself be led to the nearest exit as fast as the bushman could move.

 

* * *

 

Medic and Heavy chuckled as Sniper and Spy cut straight through the middle of the dance floor to leave.

 

“Discreet much?” Medic laughed. “But I suppose zhat is what one does during a ceasefire.” He sighed. “Not my antics. My apologies, Misha.”

 

“You welcome trouble with open arms. It is your way.” Heavy smiled. “Your way is attractive, if troublesome sometimes.”

 

Medic smiled. “You are far too forgiving, Misha.”

 

“It is because you have good intentions. But do not worry, will not say a word.” Heavy joked.

 

Medic laughed. “Rarely. Usually, I am just a maniac.”

 

“This time, both. Not much harm done, though.” Heavy replied.

 

“Thankfully.” Medic breathed. “Zhat would have rather defeated the purpose.”

 

There was some silence, until Heavy asked, “Think anything has changed?”

 

“Probably not. If so, not by much. But perhaps a message got through to everyone here.”

 

“Keep things locked up. Or a maniac will steal them.” Heavy pointed out.

 

Medic laughed, leaning further against him. “Not a bad lesson in itself.”

 

“But, not the one you wanted to send.”

 

“ _Nein,_ ” said Medic. “But I can do some thorough lung examinations, and zhis gave me more time to think of a better, more long term plan.”

 

“No more plans, one is enough.” Heavy protested.

 

“You didn’t hear me out, Misha. What if I said that I would simply introduce an anti-withdrawal drug into everyone’s bloodstream, unconsciously lowering their need to smoke?”

 

“That would be good plan. But, was not what you were going to say.” Heavy looked him in the eye.

 

“No, it was not.” Medic smirked. “But right now, zhere is still a few hours left of ceasefire.” Medic walked his fingers up Heavy’s chest. “Why don’t we try being indiscreet ourselves?” he looked at Heavy with a come-hither smile.

 

Heavy couldn’t resist those provocative words.

 

And so, they were the third and fourth people to leave the room.

* * *

 

Pyro insisted on taking each and every decoration down― and keeping them. Scout had no problem with letting Pyro gently and carefully take each balloon and streamer out of its place, while he went to bed.

 

The next day, requisitions came in. Everyone on the RED team quietly looked at each other as cigarettes were retrieved and lit. Even those who didn’t smoke stayed.

 

“Think we’ll ever find out who took the things?” Demo asked.

 

“I think… it’s more trouble than it’s worth to try and find out.” Engie replied.

 

The RED Spy walked into a veritable cloud of smoke. “ _Merde,_ ” he said, coughing even as he pulled out his cigarette case and went to join them. “What are we celebrating that will make my suit smell like cheap tobacco for a month?”

 

The entire team hesitated for just a brief second.

 

“Spy, you’ll never believe what happened―”

 

“It all started when someone _took my Eagles!_ ”

 

“And here, I thought my workshop was secure,”

 

“Not to mention the lad tried to throw a prom,”

 

“Zhe birds were everywhere―”

 

Spy threw his hands up in the air. “I have obviously missed a lot, gentlemen. Enough that I do not care to hear half a dozen versions of half a dozen events.”

 

There was a moment of quiet.

 

“Yeah, let’s get back to blowin’ people up to smithereens. Dibs on his sweetheart,” Demo said.

 

“For the love of―” Sniper began, face red. Then, the voice interrupted them.

 

_“Ceasefire ends in T-minus five minutes. Prepare for battle.”_

 

“We heard voice. Prepare for battle.” Heavy spoke.

 

Everyone nodded, gathering their things and migrating back to the inside of the base.

 

“I still call dibs on blowin’ up his sweetheart!” Demo said just as he reached the entryway.

 

Sniper suddenly proved himself to be the second fastest runner on the team as he took off to chase Demo down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the end. This is the first time I've written a fic like this, so please review! Also, a big "thank you" to KenneDuck, who is easily findable on DeviantArt, for the inspiration.


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